


Lonely Echoes

by libbertyjibbit



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dreams, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Minor Evan Lukas/Peter Lukas, Moorland House, The Lonely - Freeform, The Lukas Family, Unresolved Romantic Tension, implied Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist - Freeform, lonely martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26145319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libbertyjibbit/pseuds/libbertyjibbit
Summary: Martin convinces Jon to rest, despite both of them knowing they don't really need it. What Martin needs he can only find when he closes his eyes: the Lonely, waiting to offer him the cold comfort of the past.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	Lonely Echoes

They don't need to sleep, Jon always points out, sounding slightly exasperated, but Martin insists. Whether or not they need it physically, he argues, they both need it mentally.

_It makes things feel normal_ , Martin says, letting an edge of desperation creep into his voice. _Maybe you don't need that anymore, but I do. I - I can't just, just pretend that all of this isn't happening. If I can close my eyes for five minutes I feel like maybe things aren't so bad._

And Jon sighs. His shoulders slump, and he gives in. Sometimes it takes a little longer than others - Martin knows that the siren song of the Panopticon increases the closer they get to it, sees the way his eyes turn more and more to its shape as they walk - but he always gives in eventually, if only to keep Martin from asking any uncomfortable questions. He's often curious if Jon knows just how much Martin understands about what he's doing, but there's no indication he's even tried peering into Martin's mind to see. He supposes that Jon's afraid to find out just what he's thinking, and that suits them both fine.

If he does try, he'll find out a few things that he's better off not knowing.

Martin closes his eyes and slips away. The thought that Jon might decide to peer inside his mind while he pretends to sleep enters his thoughts briefly, but it is an old worry, and one that he can't do anything about, so he ignores it. He's not here for worry and doubt.

The fog curls around his feet and dances up his legs; winds playful fingers through his hair and tugs. He's been missed. Time passes differently outside - it stretches, elastic, so that Martin never really knows where or when they are - but it wouldn't matter. A minute or a year, this reception would be the same.

He lets the fog guide him, lets it wind him deeper and deeper into itself until all he can see is gray, all he can feel is the chill of the air around him. He smells, faintly, the salt of the ocean, and knows that he is close.

One minute there is nothing before him; the next the house looms, tall and imposing, materialized out of thin air. The door opens before Martin can reach it and he enters with mingled relief and disappointment; the fog remains outside but there is comfort to be found within these walls; a chilly embrace to bury himself in at the end of the looming hall before him.

Moorland House, like so many of these places of power, shifts, remakes itself around him. Martin walks, unhurried, towards the door at the far end of the hall. There are a few rooms in this house that he has been in, but so many more that he has never and will never see. They are not for him.

The house likes him, though, and wants to share; it opens a few doors on his way so that he can peer inside. In this one there is a man, tall and broad shouldered with piercing blue eyes, who smiles at another, smaller man with false camaraderie. "My dear Jonathan," he says, voice rich and sure and soothing, "I understand your concerns, but I have known Jonah for some years now and surely he -" he stops, turns, and if Martin didn't know that these are only memories he'd swear that the man looks right at him. The side of his mouth lifts and he shakes his head slightly, and as the door closes once more Martin hears him say, "Perhaps if you laid all of your suspicions out, we could find a way to alleviate your fears."

Another door opens. Behind it, a man with the same piercing blue eyes as the first sits at his desk, reading a sheaf of papers. The man across from him – shorter than his companion, stouter, skin red and weathered from sun and sea – looks uncomfortable, fidgeting every few seconds, opening his mouth to break the heavy silence and then thinking better of it. It spins out and out, the occasional turn of a page and the tick of the clock the only sounds in the room, until even Martin feels that he will go mad with it. Finally, though, the man finishes reading, sighs, sits back.

"Yes, this will do," he says. "I must admit that I had thought this would be a bit more difficult. I'd heard that you were a cheat."

The other man goes bright red. "I never cheated a man in my life," he says, a clear lie. "Do you want the boat or not? I've got other buyers who'd be happy to -"

"You have no other offers," the man says, sounding bored. "You are a two bit criminal without the brains to make even that work, you're going under, and the only reason that you haven't tried to cheat me is that you’ve heard of me, and you’re afraid of what my money can do. And you're very right to be. I could ruin you so thoroughly that you never again know what it is to be solvent. But that isn't really what you should be worried about." He smiles suddenly, and signs the contract with a flourish. "I'll take it. Pleasure doing business with you." He holds out his hand.

The second that the other man touches it, he winks out of existence like he'd never been. The only proof there is that he was indeed real is the loud pop of air rushing in to fill a formerly occupied space. The man - Nathaniel, Martin knows, the house whispering it into his ear like a secret - smiles. "It is a fine boat," he says, and the door swings shut.

Martin walks on. The next memory that the house shows is of a man around Martin's age, perhaps slightly older, standing with his head bowed before someone Martin knows all too well. _He looks the same_ , Martin thinks, and his chest tightens. Peter Lukas looks upon the man in front of him with no pity in his eyes. "I told you what would happen if you left," he says. "I told you, and you did it anyway. And now you want -"

"Nothing for myself," the man interrupts. He tilts his head up slightly to look at Peter through his lashes, and Martin knows suddenly that he is all too aware of how he looks, knows too what the sight of his dark, desperate gaze is doing to Peter. He's defeated yes, but perhaps not completely. "For Naomi. She doesn’t - she has nothing to do with this. If she, when she - they'll take her. And she doesn't deserve -"

"What she deserves isn't really my concern," Peter says. "You brought her into this, Evan. If you cared so much about her you should have left her alone."

"Please," Evan says. "I love her. I'll do anything." And then he drops to his knees.

"Love has no place here," Peter says, but then he smiles and reaches out, trailing a finger down Evan's upturned cheek. "I never could deny you anything," he says, falsely fond, and the door swings shut as Evan reaches up, pressing the hand against his face. Just before the door blocks them from his sight Martin sees him turn to place a kiss upon it, sees Peter’s eyes go fierce and hot at the gesture. The house shivers around him in delight – this is the night that sealed Evan’s fate forever. The night that brought him home.

Martin's throat is dry and his eyes sting. He should be disgusted, he knows, would have been at one point, but that is no longer the case. Now he only feels longing and a horrible, twisted jealousy; hating that this shadow should have what he no longer can. What he so carelessly threw away.

But that doesn't matter. He has reached the end of the corridor, and the door at the end of it swings open for him as easily as the others. A soft glow emanates from inside, beckoning. This door opens only for Martin, now, and only ever will. He steps inside.

The room is empty, as it always is. But the table is set for two. Martin sits down, closes his eyes, and lets the memories of this room - Peter's room - overwhelm him. He can’t have the man himself, but he can have his echo, and here, that’s almost enough.

_Did it help?_ Jon will ask him later. His eyes will be more shadowed than usual and his gaze will be focused very firmly away from the tower in the distance, as though that can hide the way his body constantly twitches towards it, a compass needle pointing towards his heart's desire. _Did you get any rest?_

And Martin will give him a smile that's sad around the edges and say, _yes, a bit_.

Eventually, he knows, Jon will stop pretending to believe him. Eventually they'll both have to give voice to the choices they've already made. But not yet.

There's still time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you have a moment, please let me know what you thought. :)


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